


winter's queen

by kakashihatake123



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-22 11:17:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8283973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakashihatake123/pseuds/kakashihatake123
Summary: ”His breath fanned across her neck, her palms pressed flat against his back, feeling the shift and coil of muscle beneath her fingers. They shifted, twisted easily, turned on backs and sides, pressing mouths and arms and limbs until they were close enough to share the beads of sweat that glistened down their naked bodies. Jon could feel every breath that ran through her body, every curl of her toes against his shin, every soft moan that lilted from her parted lips as sweet and soft as music.”

When the Dragon Queen ends her siege upon King's Landing and takes Westeros under her command it is shared with the Targaryen Prince that she is unable to produce an heir. Instead it is decided that Jon Snow will choose an honourable, trustworthy woman to bear a child and continue the Targaryen bloodline. The choice is immediate.





	1. Part I: The Kingsroad

Part I: The Kingsroad

Jon was not sure how they had come to arrive in this position. It was certainly one he had never anticipated for though he had been raised just beside Sansa she was as foreign to him as a stranger. Yet even after so many years he had not forgotten her. Pretty, delicate, crimson haired Sansa, so much like Robb that they might as well have been twins until adolescence claimed them.

Just to think of those days at Winterfell, when they had been clad in furs and grins and japes, now haunted him, conjuring images of the emptiness and uncertainty the enemy occupied keep brought to his mind.

The pack survives. His father’s words. It was only right that the remaining Starks, having floated so long adrift, would once more gravitate to each other.

When he closed his eyes Jon could still picture her, locked away in the depths of the Red Keep with her blunted needle poking through the cloth held tight in her shaking hands. She had jumped to her feet, her eyes gone wide and startled, the sewing in her lap crashing, abandoned, to her feet.

At the sight of the masked knights that had pushed through the remnants of the once standing mahogany door she had inched backward until she was flat against the windowless stone wall, the words that filled her mouth quavering despite her desire to sound forceful. “Stay back!” she had shouted over the noise of the clatter of armour and the smashing of various locked doors down the long corridor. “S-stay away!”

Jon had shoved through the crowd until he reached her, forcing back the other knights with a growled command. He had pulled off his blood-spattered helm and revealed his face, allowing Sansa a moment to let out a choked gasp.

She had tried to stifle a sob as she pushed herself into his arms, ignoring the blood and mud and grime that spattered his breastplate. She had been bolder than ever before, nosing at his neck, lips pressing against his bloodied face in a series of half-blind kisses. The knights had let out a holler at the sight of her lips on his in a relief filled kiss, the tears that fell like rain from her eyes making his stomach tighten.

Jon was sure that he would not have been able to recognize her if not for the servants who had pointed him towards the chamber with shaking fingers and forced smiles. She was unfamiliar. No longer the gangly, shy girl he had left behind at Winterfell. It was clear that she was older now, tall and willowy, the feel of her body against his womanly in every form, and when he pulled her from the empty chamber she did not leave his side until they were surrounded by the knights Jon promised would keep her safe. Even then she had lingered beside him, the worry on her face showing she cared not to leave him, every step he took occupied by the echo of her footsteps after his. It was only when Ghost padded across the yard to curl at her feet that she grew calm, her fingers uncurling from his, but not before first soliciting first a promise that he would return to her.

Jon had been almost unwilling to ask it of her. He knew that she was a Stark. That she would do her duty, nothing less, nothing more. In the back of his mind he had feared that she would think it an elaborate jest and laugh- or worse, and she would be furious at him and never utter another word in his presence. But Sansa had done neither.

She had sat in the great leather armchair pulled close beside the window, her cloak drawn over her body so that she resembled a great blue lump. She did not look up as he entered, having recognized his knock upon the door well enough to not feel the need to rise and curtsy, as she knew he hated. Her eyes were on the horizon, taking in the glittering lights of the city below without the looming fear she once had.

Sansa considered him as she took in his words and to Jon’s relief there were no hints of laughter or fury upon her features. In fact there was not even a glimmer of emotion to clue him in to what she was thinking. He could only stand and watch, too anxious to sit- as she had beckoned, or pace, and was instead frozen in fear, the growing nervousness in his belly making him wonder if he had made a mistake in asking her. But as he had opened his mouth to take back his words her Tully blue eyes had flicked up to meet his, so alike Robb’s that he had been shocked into silence. With two words she had accepted his worrisome proposition.

The chamber had been empty save the two of them, the only sounds occupying their ears being the crackling of the fire and Jon’s footsteps as he made towards her. Despite the tight set of his jaw the nervousness that clawed at his stomach like sickness did not read upon his face as he kneeled, unsheathing his blade and lying it at Sansa’s feet.

He had spoken, his voice clear and true. “I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table. I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.

Sansa had reached out a hand to rest it upon his shoulder, fingering the black fabric of his tunic between her thumb and forefinger. “I am not a knight.” She had professed, her eyes bright and wet and glimmering.

Jon had faltered and at once she regretted her words, realizing then that he had only tried to find the proper words to profess what he desired to say in the only way he knew. “Aye.” Agreed Jon, a light flush pressing his cheeks.

“Thank you, Jon.” she had whispered. She leaned forward to press a kiss to his cheek, feeling a gentle spray of unshorn stubble against her cheeks. He smelled fresh and clean and as she rested her brow softly against his she could feel his hair was still damp from the bath he had taken.

*********

By the time Jon pressed his fist to the door of her chamber Sansa had finished packing, the few possessions the Lannister’s had allowed her to keep folded away in the small trunk. Jon appeared in her doorway, his eyes sweeping the chamber for anything that needed to be stowed away, the sick feeling so often settled into the pit of his stomach at the thought of her sadness gathering once more at the sight of her small, half-empty trunk.

The room was still cast in the shadows and darkness of night, the sun not yet having risen to shed the Capital in yellowish-white light. It was before dawn that Jon had chosen to set off, unwilling to tire out both men and horses unnecessarily in the staunch Southron heat. The ride to Winterfell would be long, Sansa knew, but she did not care. To see the snow and feel the cold air upon her face…She would have given anything for it.

“Are you ready, Sansa?” Jon asked. He often said her name when speaking to her, as though testing out the sound of the syllables on her tongue.

She nodded. “Will this be all right for riding?” The last time she had made such a long journey she had taken the litter with her sister and their septa and had worn whatever she pleased. She had even dressed up for the occasion, having once been infatuated with the beauty of the Queen and the glamour of the Capital. Jon had offered to fashion a litter for the occasion but Sansa rebuffed his offer, promising that she could sit a horse as well as any man could. Though in truth she was skeptical of this after having not been allowed to ride since her days at Winterfell she did not wish Jon to think of her as another of the spoiled maidens that had begged to join Daenerys’ court after the Golden Lioness had been overthrown.

Jon looked at her over his shoulder, having turned to pick up her trunk. He swallowed the lump in his throat, nodding as he remembered once when she had told him it was proper to call a woman pretty at any opportunity.

“You look lovely.” Said he, his mouth gone suddenly dry.

It was not a lie. Despite the fact that she had traded her gowns for one of his tunics, so loose that it slipped down around her shoulders and had to be belted at her waist- another one of his contributions to the ensemble- with breeches and a pair of worn riding boots. She made no response but the soft glow of her cheeks and the quirk of her lips told him that she had appreciated the comment.

Daenerys had taken to Meereen to attend to a series of small riots that had erupted around the city and was unable to see them off, though Sansa was sure she had given her husband a private farewell the day before.

Sansa was not sure why the thought made her stomach tighten as she knew full well that Jon was her husband as a matter of duty and nothing more. Dany was the one that he loved. The Silver Queen, as beautiful as she was kind, so well loved by the people of the city that they had nearly rioted on the Red Keep and thrown the Lannister’s out themselves. What was Sansa? The women whose womb would bear the Prince of Westeros for the Queen who was unable. She hoped the history texts would not include this among the notes of the Queen’s reign.

Sansa turned away, hoping Jon did not see the horror on her face at seeing the horses that had been bridled and saddled for their journey. The fidgeting palfreys were three heads taller than she, the stirrups of their saddle so high that they nearly stood to her collarbones. The handful of knights Jon had asked join them had swung easily into their saddles, the conversations they carried beginning to trail off when they realized Sansa had not yet begun to settle herself.

Jon gave her a look that proved he knew she was _not_ as good a rider as she claimed but he did not speak it, coming instead to stand at her side and bringing forth the small step that the Queen often used to reach her Silver. But even with the step Sansa could not quite reach the horse’s back and without another word Jon set his hands upon her waist and lifted her until she was able to balance herself upon the horse, her booted feet fitting easily into her stirrups.

Sansa nodded in silent thanks, adjusting her position and pointedly ignoring the way her tunic had ridden up beneath as he lifted her, leaving space for Jon’s callused palms to brush her bare skin, light and warm as a snap of Southron wind. Jon’s fingers were rough from so long holding a sword, the way they brushed her uncovered side causing warmth to bloom across her skin and unfurl in the midst of her belly. She wondered if he had noticed it but was too embarrassed to turn towards him as he strode back to his own steed and swung his leg easily over the saddle.

Sansa had assumed that Jon would ride ahead, would keep the conversations he had joined with the knights of the North and leave her to her peace. And yet he pulled back on his reins, beckoning with a jerk of his head for the knights to continue on and leave him behind to ride beside his almost wife.

She knew how long the ride would be and yet she found herself asking nevertheless, her desire to hear the deep rumble of Jon’s voice overpowering her own hesitancy.

“A fortnight.” Replied he, adjusting the fingers of his riding gloves. His palms had grown warm beneath the tight leather but his palms were still tender from his previous ride to King’s Landing. “If the snow is not too heavy.”

She bobbed her head in response. Silence stretched between them, the path they carved around the city leading them passed the remanence of the once standing Sept.

“What happened here?” Jon asked. Their horse’s hooves clopped across the cobblestones of the destroyed streets, Sansa’s eyes scanning the road as though she could see the bodies of the friends she had once known.

Sansa wondered if she could be correct in assuming that the Queen had already told of Cersei Lannister’s use of the canisters of wildfire that had been placed around the perimeter of the city during the Mad King’s reign. She had opened her mouth to say this but thought better of it, then realizing that Jon was only offering an olive branch to her, inviting her into the conversation that the knights had formerly shut her out of, whether purposeful or not.

At first Sansa was uneasy, so attuned to Joffrey’s lack on interest in her words and the Queen’s disinterest in allowing her to speak freely that for the first few days of their journey she found it was difficult to find the words she wished to speak or to find the boldness to wedge herself into the continued conversations. She was surprised to find that the longer they rode, the easier it became. She had to constantly remind herself that she was no longer among enemies and could instead speak her mind if she felt the desire, finding herself jumping on her long hidden desire to comment on the former Queen’s madness or the former King’s cruelty. If she even desired it she could have called the King an incestuous bastard, knowing no beatings would follow.

Their journey began to change, so steadily and slowly that at first Sansa had not noticed it. As the hours on horseback morphed into days the Southron heat became wisps of chilling winds that whipped through the cloak she wrapped around herself, the sweat that had once beaded upon her brow now becoming shivers and chattering teeth. She had been allowed so few possessions that she had not even owned a pair of riding gloves and had been given a pair of Jon’s, the fine fur keeping her thin fingers warm as she clutched tightly to the icy leather reins.

When she had been a girl she had not been as fond of riding as she had now become, having shared her mother’s distaste to come off of her saddle sore and smelling of sweat and horses. In the Capital she had not been allowed a horse, the Lannister’s fearing she would take the mare and flee the city, and though Sansa was still clumsy and unfamiliar with the ways of riding she now found it to be as freeing as her brothers had once claimed.

With the cool winter wind upon her face, whipping her crimson hair free from its pins, and the smell of cold, wet earth at her nose, she was reminded of what it was like to be at Winterfell, so close to the Northern city that it almost made her mouth water with the temptation.

Jon was pleased to see the change in her. She had been subdued, almost silenced by the Lannisters so greatly that for weeks after the Queen’s ascension she was unable to regain her happiness. Sansa had kissed him when he had broken down the door to her chamber but afterwards, standing before the Queen, she had shied away again, hiding behind her courtesies and pleasantries like it was a shield she brought to battle.

And now Jon watched her, dancing arm in arm with one of the knights as they circled the roaring fire in the clearing where they had made their camp. She sang along with the clumsy rendition of the _Bear and the Maiden Fair_ that the other knights had begun after one of them had began to pluck loudly at a lyre he had pulled from his pack. And she was laughing. As contagious as sickness it seemed to spread to the rest of the knights until they were hooting and hollering loud enough that Jon was sure it could be heard all the way in Meereen.

Sansa held out her hand for him and he waved her away, remembering all too well the last time he had danced, though it seemed like a lifetime ago when Robb and Theon had teased him about his clumsy footwork.

“Come on now!” one of the knights called, clapping his hands.

“When a beautiful woman asks you to join her, I think you ought to.” Came Satin as he continued to pluck at his instrument.

Finally Jon had no choice but to oblige- if only just to silence the mass of urging voices- and accepted the hand that Sansa offered. Despite the fact that Sansa’s normal fashion of light coloured dresses and feminine patters were absent and she wore instead a man’s breeches and a sleeved tunic she was still beautiful enough to draw the eye of every man in the party. He took her hand and looked down into her smiling face and it suddenly became very easy to forget that she was once the youngest girl of Winterfell.

He did not know the time but he was not sure he cared, the only thing occupying his mind the way that Sansa’s body, half hidden by layers of linen and cotton, moved before his, turning and spinning as free as though she had not danced in years. Then again, he supposed she hadn’t.

Jon had never asked Sansa what had happened within the walls of the Red Keep and she had never offered, the sentences started by the Queen or the rest of her knights often ending in nothing but her silence. Daenerys had once broached the subject with Tyrion, asking to know the truth of Sansa’s confinement. For the first time in many months the youngest Lannister had lapsed into silence, the mirth normally in his eyes giving way to a darkness that said more than his silence.

“Jon?” Sansa called.

Jon sat up in his bed, able to see the silhouette of her figure through the thin fabric of his tent and called for her to enter. Her tent had been pitched beside his, as close as was possible, for Jon knew, despite her reluctance to speak it, that she was afraid of being alone, so many years of abuse making her see threats in every shadow and fear in every corner.

Ghost had padded over to her, lifting his head and awaiting the soft fingers she so often dragged through his fur.

For the first few days of travel the direwolf had abandoned his side in favour of Sansa, who had been awoken most night by night terrors real enough to make her shout. At first Jon had been forced to fight through the doorway to reach Sansa, Ghost launching himself into action each time she uttered more than just a breath. After a few days the pale direwolf had given up running back and forth between their tents and had chosen instead to occupy the space between Sansa’s cot and the door, a hurdle any intruder would have to face to reach the girl.

Sansa looked hesitant, the words that she tripped over coming out in a jumble. “C-could I s-sleep in here?” she asked. Jon’s eyes slid from hers to Ghost’s, wondering absently if it had been the wolf’s plan to bring them together all along.

Jon nodded without pause, seeing relief spread across her face. The cot he had laid upon was unmade, the pillows and furs ruffled and messy, but Sansa neither seemed to notice nor care. She offered at once to make a bed upon the floor but Jon rebuffed her, claiming he was perfectly comfortable taking the armchair that was pulled before the fire.

The crimson haired beauty had already shed her riding clothes in favour of a night shift and had her arms crossed over her chest, the thinness of the fabric and the brightness of the firelight combining to make her shift nearly transparent. Jon meandered about for a few more moments before taking his place in the reclined chair, gathering his furs around himself, the fatigue that pulled at him threatening to swallow him completely.

“Jon?” he heard her whisper. The fire crackled in its grate, licks of orange flame devouring the logs he had thrown into the hearth before taking his seat. She had been still enough to fool him into thinking she was sleeping and as he snuck a look at her out of the corner of his eye he found the mass of blankets and furs piled over her body disguised her almost completely her from view.

“Hm?” he replied. Fatigue made him bat his lashes, his eyes burning.

“Why did you choose me?”

It was a question that he had been awaiting for many weeks for but had not yet been able to prepare a proper answer. He sighed, the pause between her words and his answer so long that she spoke again, her whisper dissipating in the darkness like morning fog as she uttered, “Are you awake?”

“Yes.” He turned towards her, her face barely visible beneath the fluff of the furs. Ghost had lapsed into sleep at the foot of her bed, his body covered by the blankets she had laid over him and his snores beginning to fill the tent. He sighed again. “I just want…I want to keep you safe, whatever it entails. I should have kept you safe from the start…it is what father would have wanted.”

Another few moments of terse silence passed between them. Sansa lifted her head to look at him and her blue eyes glowed in the dark. “You kept your vows, just as father would have done. He would have been proud of you.” He did not miss the way her voice faltered as she said the words. Another few moments of silence passed between their beds. “We should take our vows in the Godswood…” she paused, her eyes winding absently across the snowy terrain. “So they can…so they might see us.”

“And what would they say?” scoffed Jon, hoping the bitterness in his voice was masked by the humour he had tried to impart in his words.

“Jon.” Sansa said, her tone warning. “Don’t speak about yourself that way.”

If Jon was taken aback by the sentiment he did not speak it, turning away so Sansa was unable to see the flush that had coloured the apples of his cheeks. “I am not a Stark.”

“You are to me.” said she without pause. Her voice was sleepy but her eyes were alight with nothing but conviction as she raised herself on her elbow to look at him, the cold breeze that lapped through him having little to do with the snow. At once the weight that had pushed harshly down on his chest seemed to be relieved, the constriction of his throat loosening.

Sansa turned on her side so that her back was to him, the furs pulled so high over her face that they tickled the brow no longer creased with the worry of what truths their conversation would bring to light. Jon smiled as he heard the sounds of her soft breaths and knew she had fallen asleep, allowing him to more freely think.

He could remember the girl that had once sat with her needle in her mother’s chamber at Winterfell, quietly sewing a pattern of a mermaiden with starlight in her hair. Who had stood up before the guests of the dining hall, her face burning hot as flame, and sang the sweet song of Jonquil and Florian the Fool. Who had shied away from conflict, fleeing to stand behind her father in moments of fear. But Eddard Stark was gone Jon’s back was now the one that shielded her.

It was almost like a knights vows, Jon promising that he would shield her back and keep her council. _For this night and all the night’s to come_ , he thought, turning to look at her sleeping form, a knife of pain twisting in his belly at the sight of her eyes pressed so tightly shut, as though to ward off the dreams that plagued her. _And now my watch begins_.

The rest of the journey continued without event, their days filled with conversation, their nights filled with song. The snow was heavy and unfaltering, raining over their heads in sheets so thick that it rose nearly as high as his stirrups. Despite the furs draped over her shoulders Sansa shivered, the cloak she had hesitantly borrowed from Jon large enough to fall to the toes of her riding boots. After so many months in the Capital he had grown used the city’s sweat and burnishing heat and the feel of frost on his face chilled him to the core, but their conversations burned warm enough to thaw the cold from their bones.

Sansa was aching to reach Winterfell, her desire for a warm fire and a feather bed growing each night as they slept upon the thin cots that Jon had dragged into their shared tent. Like a pot of water boiling over Sansa bubbled with excitement at the prospect of returning North. Each day she seemed to find something else to look forward to. Building snow palaces, drinking hot spiced wine, studying the books in the Maester’s chamber, praying in the Godswood.

By the time they finally reached the city Jon feared she might burst with the excitement that had built within her. She urged her heels into the horse’s side and launched ahead of the rest of the party, pushing down the snow-covered bank and towards the front gate of the city.

He was glad to find what little remanence of the Bolton forces had been washed away as though the enemy house had never made camp there. The flayed man sigil was cut quickly and completely down from the banners and castle walls before being once more replaced with the gray and white direwolf that waved familiarly in the wind. The tents the Bolton army had once been pitched had disappeared, the empty plain was now overgrown with grass that the snow had turned to pockets of mud that Sansa’s boots sunk into as she jumped from her horse’s back, quickly handing the reins to the awaiting stable master.

Jon felt himself smile, riding into a gallop after her. It had been weeks since he had seen the city and he realized with a start that the last time he had seen it among its former glory was when Lord Stark had been Warden of the North.

It was hours that Sansa walked through the castle. She inspected each inch of the castle, looking through every scrap of parchment, every book, every smudged glass windowpane. Her eyes scrutinizing passed over the rooms once occupied by the house that were responsible for the murders of her brothers, searching for any sign that they had once sought shelter within the walls of Winterfell.

Ghost was close at her heels, growling warningly at every servant who crossed her path as though he remembered the last time he had been among the company of Winterfell’s former occupants. Jon had come to check upon her near midday, finding her upon her hands and knees in the former Lord’s solar. In her closer fist she gripped a piece of parchment that was torn from a letter, the wax seal crumbling beneath her touch but bearing the unmistakable flayed man she had come to fear and hate.

Ghost had taken the rest of the parchment, the smudge of ink across his lips showing that what the wolf was chewing on was a hunk of yellowed parchment bearing words that had made Sansa’s face red enough to turn a splotched red.

“What is it?” Jon asked, sitting back on his heels beside her. He leaned forward, trying to make out the words on the parchment.

“It’s from him.” said Sansa. Her voice was broken and wavering, the hand she lifted to wipe away a stray tear trembling. “He’s speaking of…of Arya.”

A pang of pain struck Jon’s chest like a fist. “We’ll find her.” he assured the crimson haired girl, her shoulders hunched forward so that she could bury her face in the fur across Ghost’s back. The direwolf had stilled at the sudden presence of her touch, his paw laid upon her booted foot, warm through the snow speckled leather. “We will find her Sansa. I’ve got knights all across the world actively searching.”

“Did you offer a reward?” she asked, her head rising suddenly. “I do not have much but I can-“

“Of course.” Jon interrupted, holding up a hand. “I would give all my gold for her.”

“I know that.” Sansa whispered. “I just…I want her back. She deserves to be here too. To be home.”

His hand twitched and for a moment it was laid against hers. Her finger reached to draw against the back of his palm and the dull, painless scrape of nail on skin might have tickled if the circumstances were different. Jon felt his eyes heavy with fatigue but he dare not close them, fixated on the meeting of Sansa’s pale flesh as it pressed to his, her index finger crossing his knuckles in a measured dance.

Ghost lifted his head and Sansa jumped, the hand that had been so close to lying against his pulled back against her chest, returning to its original position of clutching the letter. As though her flesh had left behind a trail of flame he could feel his skin glow warm and soft where she had touched and he wondered if he lifted his hand to his nose if it would smell of her.

They broke their fast in the dining room where they had once hosted King Robert Baratheon, when Sansa had been at the high table besides her siblings and Jon at once of the low tables besides the kennel master’s daughter. But now they sat side-by-side, close enough that Jon could feel Sansa’s knee brush his beneath the clothed table as she adjusted herself in the seat. They ate meagerly, too fatigued from their journey to care to sate the hunger in their bellies. They did not hold a conversation more than a few words but the silence that encompassed them was in no way strained, passing easily between them without discomfort.

It was at least another hour that they argued back and forth between them over who should retire to the Lord’s chambers. “Winterfell belongs to you, Sansa.” Said Jon.

She bristled. “It is yours by right. Without you they would still be here.”

“It is yours by blood.” He lobbed. “Just as the Lord’s chamber is.”

It was the ancestral chamber of her house. Where her father and mother had once slept and Rickard Stark before them. A simple room of canvas and stone that held so many memories that Sansa could not even step into the room without feeling tears well at the back of her throat.

Her eyes drooped with the desire for sleep, her voice course and rough as they argued back and forth. By the time that Jon came up with a solution, so simple it was a shock his tired mind had not first thought of it, that Sansa agreed with little hesitation.

“We are the Lord and Lady of Winterfell.” Said Jon. His beard had grown rough and unshorn as they journeyed, casting the lower half of his face in looming shadows. “By law it is our chamber. Both of our chamber.”

“We share it.” Sansa repeated, simplifying his words when his tired mind had not finished.

“Aye.” Said Jon. “Unless-“

“No.” she interjected, stifling a yawn. “We share it.”

They slept their first night in Winterfell beside each other in a featherbed large enough to swallow them with cushions and furs, both so obtrusively tired that with a simple whispered, “sleep well.” they were immediately pulled into undisturbed sleep.

Ghost slept soundly at their bedside and unlike the previous nights of their journey his soft, breathy snores were not enough to wake them. Sansa had become accustomed to Jon’s snores, finding comfort in them, knowing that as long as she heard his intake and exhale of breath she was safe from any villain that might come for her.

He awoke with a start. In the darkness he was blind, pulled from his dreams by a force unseen. His eyes blinked rapidly, trying in vain to adjust to the lack of light, the only thing illuminating the room being the looming silver moonlight that crept in through the slits in the drawn curtains. He felt around for Sansa but came up with only a fistful of silken sheets. The chamber was silent, neither the snores of Ghost nor the feel of Sansa to accompany him this night.

“Sansa?” he called. Terror was twisting through him like a fist; gripping him so tightly he could barely more. The shadows seemed to grow, every rattle of wind against the stone walls seeming loud as a crack of thunder. He reached blindly for Longclaw, each night leaving the sword propped against the night table, close enough that he could unsheathe the blade if needed.

He turned at once, the thud of something heavy and forceful landing upon him. At once pain blistered through him, a crying face hovering above his in the darkness, and when he made to let out a scream nothing but a gurgle of blood came free from his lips.

He twisted in the layers of bedding he had pulled over himself in the night, waking suddenly to find light streaming in through the open windows. A cool breeze rushed to meet him, the crackling of the fire mixing with the cold air to create a force neither cold nor hot. Sansa was on her feet beside the bed, dressed and fresh faced, her hair damp the remanence of water from the bath she had taken and curling at the nape of her neck.

“It was a dream.” she whispered. Her voice was soft and soothing, easing his back against the pillows she had pulled behind him. “It was just a dream.” His head bobbed absently. She could still feel the bite of the knife against her skin but now saw nothing to warrant fear. There was no pain blistering through him, no familiar faces hiding in the shadow less chamber.

“Just a dream.” She repeated and without pause sat on the edge of the bed and opened her arms, allowing his body to sink against hers. His head laid against her chest, close enough to hear the dull bear of her heart against the cage of her ribs. Her arms locked around him, pulling him tight enough against her body that he could almost feel the nightmare washing away. He had never known such an embrace, for his mother had died long before he was old enough to require such a thing and Catelyn had never offered, believing Jon to be a living, breathing reminder of her husbands infidelity.

But Sansa was as far removed from a mother as he had ever known. While her embrace was tender and comforting there was something about being in such close quarters with her that made his skin prick with excitement. Heat washed over him before setting in the pit of his stomach and the midst of his chest, the seconds passing over the embracing pair until Jon made to pull away.

He had been afraid to see pity in her eye. Afraid that she might think less of him for being fearful of something that never truly existed. And yet she did not. Sansa looked at him, her eyes sad but not pitiful, and spoke, “I have them too.” She whispered finally, pleasure rippling through him like the gust from a cold wind. “It is okay to be afraid of some things.” A pause. “We have each other now. We can…protect each other.”


	2. Part II: The Godswood

Part II: The Godswood

A few days passed, filled with soft, quiet moments of shared company between them. Jon wrote letters and Sansa worked at mending his torn tunics, Sansa made her way through the volumes Maester Tarly had brought from the Citadel, keeping careful watch over Jon after he fell into sleep in the chair before his writing table. Together they attended to the business that had fallen into their laps since their return to Winterfell, handling the accounts the Bolton’s had allowed lapse, attending to the servants and small folk they had not provided rations and supplies for to manage throughout winter.

Jon set about to return to his swordsmanship, heading towards the training barracks around midday after breaking his fast each day. Sansa paused as she passed the training barracks, the sounds of clashing sword and shield enough to draw her attention away from the letters she had been making out to the other houses of the North.

She spotted Jon in seconds, her eye catching the way he moved, his arm carving through the air so easily that it was almost as though his sword was an extension of his own arm. He paused, wiping the sweat from his brow and turning to look at Sansa, tucked away in the frame of the door. She returned his smile, her eyes finding the way his hair stuck to his brow in sweaty black curls, a blush swooping across her cheeks and down her neck like a rash from leaf poison.

Despite the snow he wore nothing but a simple tunic and light plate, the laces that should have been knotted at his neck having come undone somewhere in the midst of his practice battle. His chest was broad, his arms and belly rippling with the thick cords of muscle she had felt when curled in his embrace the night of Daenerys’ sack of King’s Landing. She stood for a moment, her arms weighed down with the books she was to return to Maester Tarly’s solar, watching as Jon worked with the younger boys that filled the yard. She watched him, a warmth building in her chest that made her throat feel tight and tighter still when Jon lifted a hand in a wave, his lips quirking into a smile.

It was not long before the pair descended upon the Godswood, wed before the sights of Gods and men. Sansa had been visiting the Godswood the previous days, feeling as thought she might catch just a glimpse of the parents who had once sat upon the same bench where she now lay.

Her gown was simpler than she would have imagined when she was a girl, having dreamed of ribbons and lace and pearls the size of cherries looped around her neck. Sansa had desired the glamour and beauty that Cersei Lannister exuded, the golden smiles, the pretty words. It had all been washed away by her years in the Capital and now she only desired the look her mother had once worn, simplicity, comfort, freedom to feel the cool breeze that drifted through the thick layers of wool and cotton she was swathed in.

Her eyes were on the crimson leaves, red as blood and shimmering in the bright sunlight, glistening with drops of dew and snow that rained down upon them as the wind blew.

The ceremony was small, warranting only a few guests. The small retinue of knights that had joined them on their journey stood among the crimson leaves and snow banks of the Godswood, grinning and whispering at the bride as she walked forward, snow crunching beneath her boots as she was led by Maester Tarly’s arm.

Standing at the end of the wood Jon was dressed in a black doublet and matching surcoat, so reminiscent of his days in the Night’s Watch that she could almost smile, having heard the tales of his valor from the knights, though Jon had followed these tales by claiming they were exaggerated.

The wedding was officiated by a simple man in a plain tunic and hose, his gray streaked beard falling down to his mid chest. His eyes were kind and his voice even as he spoke, his eyes barely descending to read along with the words in his book. Sansa wondered how many couples he had wed to have long ago memorized these words, his leathery hands lifting hers and placing it atop Jon’s. They repeated the words when they were bid, following the queues of the officiant until they were wed, standing side by side before the watchful eyes of the Heart Tree.

They feasted that night, the hall of Winterfell filled with cheers and laughter and song. Sansa sat beside Jon at the head table, looking over the crowds of guests that seemed not to know that the last time a feast of this magnitude was held, the lives of the bride and groom were drastically changed.

Sansa ate meagerly, suddenly very aware of the fact that the bedding would be soon to follow. At her side Jon seemed to sense her discomfort and offered his chalice of sweet Dornish wine, watching as her throat bobbed as she swallowed. The heat of it spread through her from throat to belly and at once she seemed to be quelled of her fear, smiling softly in thanks.

A moment passed before she reached to lay her hand upon his, her thumb movingly gently to trace a line across the back of his wrist. His skin was warm and soft and one of his fingers lifted to curl around hers, his lips quirking into a smile.

“It’s strange.” She whispered. “Where we are now. I never thought…that I would see you again.”

He nodded slowly. “Neither did I.”

“I dreamt of you.” She continued, embolden by the wine and the merriment that had quickly spread through the chamber. She smiled weakly to herself. “That you and Robb would…I hoped that you would come for me.”

“I wish he could be here.” Jon continued. Sansa lifted her hand from his to wipe a jewel of crimson wine from where it had spilled down his chin before setting it back down upon his. It felt comfortable, to sit beside him, warm and comfortable and free. In the home she had so long dreamt of. With the man she had once called brother and would soon call lover.

The bedding ceremony was far gentler than she would have anticipated and Sansa had a feeling that Jon had spoken to the men on Winterfell without her knowledge. Instead of pawing at her and screaming ill-timed japes they were careful as they hefted her upon their shoulders, her feet swept off the ground as easily as though she were feather light. Tormund kept close watch upon the men as their fingers pulled at the laces of her bodice and her slippers were pulled off one by one and left behind in the long corridor. Her stockings were unrolled and she flushed brightly, worried that one of the man’s hands would rise higher than her thigh and touch her maidenhood, but none did, the narrowing eyes of Tormund keeping them from teasing too greatly. She could almost smile at their ruddy red faces, the men so deep into their cups that it took them three tries to find the correct chamber.

Sansa knew that soon enough Jon would follow, carried on the shoulders of the women of the North, pawed at until he was clad in nothing but smallclothes, as she was.

Satin smiled as Sansa was set down, lifting her hand and kissing her knuckles gently before ushering the men out of the room. It was mere moments before Sansa could hear the sounds of clamor echo down the stone corridor and the door swung open again before Jon was deposited in the midst of the room.

He grinned at her, his clothing askew. His tunic hung around his neck like a Maester’s chain, his breeches unlaced and one of his boots missing. “Those women…” he said, running a hand through his hair. “ _Wild_.”

She shifted awkwardly, dressed in little but her small clothes and the thin, silk shift that hugged her softly beneath her gown. Sansa stood before the fire, the cream coloured silk shining like silver. The cool breeze that seemed to pierce the stone walls of the keep made her shiver and she could hear the soft shift and rattle in the hall that meant Ghost had taken his place outside their door, most likely baring his teeth at anyone who might try to interrupt.

Jon turned to add a log to the fire, the room filled with the dull crackling of the flames as they licked at the dry wood.

The air was filled with staunch awkwardness, the chamber suddenly seeming far larger than normal. Sansa could still feel the wine stirring in her belly and before the warmth in her bones could subside she crossed the room and pushed herself into Jon’s arms.

It was far different from the first time, when Jon had been clad in mail and plate and splashed with enemy blood and Sansa had been startled and exhilarated by his appearance. His arms closed around her back, pulling her so that she was flush against him, her chin resting against his chest as she looked up at him.

His eyes were deep and dark but they shone like obsidian, his head dipping down to brush his lips against hers. She could taste the sweetness of wine and the sugared strawberries he had eaten and his lips were softer than she could have imagined, though the roughness of his beard scratched at her skin.

His palm pressed to her lower back, curving her against him so that she could drape her arms around his neck. “I’m…” she whispered. “I’m a maiden.”

Jon soothed her with a whisper, his mouth moving to brush against her cheek. “I won’t hurt you.”

She nodded. He need not even speak the words for Sansa knew he could never harm her. She was safe at his side, whether she was his second wife or his first.

Jon’s arms moved to lift her and lay her upon the bed, pushing aside the pillows and blankets so that she could lay flat. For a moment they were enveloped in a silence that was neither unwelcomed nor uncomfortable before she raised her head to kiss him once more.

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, glad that a cold snap of wind had come through the open windows to blow out the candles on the nightstand. The room was cast in half darkness, the only light the dull glow of orange and red from the burning fire. Sansa could see Jon above her, propping himself on his arms, the bulge of muscle hard as stone beneath her hands as she slid down his arms and back.

She bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out in pain as he pushed into her but the muffled sound escaped from the corner of her mouth. Jon froze instantly, stilling above her, his looming face dark with concern.

“Sansa.” He said, questioning. His bare chest was pressed to hers, warm through the thin silk shift, the smattering of dark hair across his chest smooth beneath her fingers.

She shook her head. “It’s fine.” she said, flinching. She could already feel herself beginning to adjust to the feeling of him within her, her hips having risen off the feather stuffed mattress to meet his.

The consummation of their marriage was quick and without problem. Jon moved slowly at first, careful not to further harm the girl that lay beneath him. Sansa shivered in the icy air, glad to have Jon’s warm frame against her. Her lips made a line down his cheeks and his jaw until she heard him emit a long, low growl of a moan and still once more.

The abundance of wine he had drunk during their wedding feast made his eyes droop closed, his chest rising and falling with every breath. Sansa rose quietly and Jon sat up sleepily, looking after her. He opened his mouth to speak but she hushed him gently with a light kiss, feeling his lips rise in a smile against hers. The gesture seemed contagious, until the smile he had begun had spread fully to her, her fingers brushing gently through his dark curls.

“Sleep now.” She offered, returning to her journey to the door. As soon as she turned the knob Ghost was on his feet, padding towards her as excitedly as though he knew what had just become of his master.

The direwolf yawned, nipping lightly at the back of Sansa’s knee as she crossed back to the bed, finding Jon fast asleep on his back in the middle of the mattress. Sansa smiled to herself and took her place beside him. She raised the furs to their chins and felt Jon’s arm lift groggily over her shoulder and draw her close enough to count the dull thrum of his heart against her eat and the soft rise and fall of his chest.

The bed shifted with the weight of another person and Sansa let out a soft gasp, her body going cold with the fear that prohibited her from lifting her head and seeing the enemies she had long ago escaped. Sansa let out a sigh of relief to find that Ghost had lifted himself onto the bed, moving to occupy the space on Sansa’s other side, effectively wedging her between Ghost’s massive body and Jon’s sleeping form. But she could only smile, realizing that suddenly the shadows didn’t seem so menacing.

When Sansa awoke she found only Ghost upon the bed, curled so tightly into a ball that she could not help but think of the first day that her brothers had returned to the keep with the wolves. Lady had been so small that she had fit into her arms like a newborn kitten, nuzzling tighter in her arms and running her pink tongue against the silver brooch pinned to Sansa’s chest.

The white wolf lifted his head as he felt the featherbed shift as she rose and descended upon the washroom. She was surprised to find the bath was full and the water was still steaming, smiling softly at the thought that Jon had bid the servants to draw her a bath.

There was an array of sweet smelling soaps, foaming against the warm water as she poured them in, gently splashing her legs to stir the bath. She leaned against the copper lip of the tub, letting thoughts wash over her like the rose smelling soaps.

She wondered what had become of Cersei Lannister, who was awaiting trial before the panel of judges that would surely sentence her to death by beheading, just as she had once done to the Warden of the North. The Lioness had been abandoned by her brothers, separated from her children by the Stranger who had long ago given his kiss to the three youngest Lannisters. The explosion of the Sept had killed Kevan and Lancel Lannister and Tywin Lannister had been killed at Tyrion’s own hand. She was utterly alone, a punishment that suited her almost as well as imprisonment.

Next Sansa thought of the Queen of Westeros. She could still remember the siege Daenerys had laid upon King’s Landing, the fire her dragons breathed burnishing hot enough to burn stone and metal, fatal to any man or being who came in contact with it. Her soldiers had numbered in the thousands, so completely overpowering the Lannister forces that the crimson-garbed knights threw down their weapons within the hour, relinquishing the city to the Stormborn queen.

As soon as the first trebuchet was launched Cersei had lifted the drawbridge and dropped the portcullis, a simple effort to guard the castle from her forces. Sansa had been swept away to the bowels of the castle and locked away in a chamber without windows. The only company she had known that long night was the shake and rattle of the city as mortars were launched and buildings fell under the force of dragon fire. It was only when the door was broken down by Jon’s men that she had seen another human, blinking away the pain in her eyes at the sudden presence of light in the pitch black chamber.

She had been filled with icy cold fear at the thought of enemy men coming for her. She wished she had a blade, wished she could protect herself from the knights who had surely come to rape her, to abduct her, to harm her more than Joffrey had ever done. But it had been Jon and she had been so relieved to see him that she had collapsed into his arms.

Sansa found her husband in the training yard, once more with the squires he had taken beneath his wing. She could not help but wonder what he would be like as a father but as soon as the thought crossed her mind she knew the answer. He would be as kind and gentle as he was to her and to the squires in his presence, ruffling their hair, laughing at their japes, swatting lightly at them when they lowered their shields or took the wrong steps.

_Keep your shield up or I’ll ring your head like a bell_ , she heard him say. She could remember her father telling him the same thing, but that felt like a lifetime ago.


	3. Part III: The Bedding

Part III: The Bedding

Sansa stood beside the jamb of the door, the toes of her boots wet with the patches of snow she had pushed through. A gust of icy wind raked through the leafless trees and she drew the furs laid about her shoulders tighter around herself. But despite the burn of the cold there was a smile on her lips, the happiness at the prospect of being once more at home stronger than any chill of shiver that ran through her.

“M’lady.” Said a gruff voice, the sudden presence of another figure in the shadowed corridor making her jump.

“Tormund.” Sansa greeted, offering a small curtsy to the wildling that had recently become her companion. “You need not call me my lady.”

“And you need not curtsy.” He chuckled. He was a man of the North and despite the fact that he had crossed the Wall long before he still wore the patchwork of furs skinned from animals he had trapped.

“Are you to train with Jon?”

“No, m’lady.” He said, earning a pointed glance from her. “I am from the Godswood. Your Gods are very strange. Living in trees that way.”

She laughed, attracting the stares of Jon and the squires. The young boys, flushed from exercise and cold, darkened even more, their stances shifted until their chests were firm and their muscles contracted. “They don’t live in trees.” Sansa insisted halfheartedly, knowing it was futile.

Tormund offered his arm and she took it gratefully, waving goodbye to Jon as they turned from the yard. “Where are you going?” asked the crimson haired man.

“Just exploring…it has been many years since I was home.” He nodded slowly, understanding. “Do you miss your home?”

Tormund considered her words. “I miss my children.” He professed. “I miss my wife. I do not miss my home. The Kneelers took that from me.”

It was her turn to nod. “I am sorry.” Said she, fingers gently squeezing his arm. “I do not think I was ever able to properly thank you for fighting with Jon and for winning Winterfell back from them.”

“I am proud to fight beside him.” he grunted. “They say the wildlings follow only strength. If that is true I would follow your husband to the ends of Westeros and back.”

A moment of silence passed between them as they continued walking. “Tell me about the wildlings.”

He laughed bawdily. “I am sure you have heard the stories.”

“Aye.” Said Sansa. “But I wish to know the truth.”

And so he spoke and Sansa listened. He told Sansa of his wife and children, of the King Beyond the Wall, of Ygritte, of the way Jon had killed his Lord Commander to prove his loyalty to Mance.

Sansa could remember the night that she had lay beside Jon in their joined tent, listening as he told her of his days upon the Wall. His stories were bashful but no less truthful, telling Sansa of the days he had stood at the top of the Wall, watching as the ice wept in the warm sun and shivered in the cold. Of the blade the former Lord Commander had gifted him, the great bear that had once filled its pommel replaced with a staunch white direwolf, the same blade used when Jon had fought beside the men of House Mormont to free the North from the Bolton’s hold. He told her of the wights and the white walkers and she did not miss the way his voice tremble as he spoke.

By the time they walked to the Maester’s chambers she knew nearly every story of Tormund and Jon’s shared nights yet she desired more, hungering for the knowledge of the days before he had come for her.

Despite the loud guffaw of laughter Tormund emitted each time she curtsied or called him ser she continued it all the same, bestowing a fine curtsy upon him as he left her at the Maester’s door, the sound of his laugher accompanying her up the small staircase and to Sam’s solar.

She found Jon occupying one of the large leather armchairs she had recently taken to, though he hastily stood as he saw her. His tunic lay across his knees, his bare shoulders bloody and bruised and speckled with grains of dirt.

“Sansa?” he blurted, confused. It was clear he had not expected to find her in Sam’s chambers.

“Are you hurt?” asked she, brow furrowed with concern as she ordered her husband turn his so she could better see the injury. She was pleased to find he obeyed her command with little hesitation, reminding her of the days she had seen her parents together, the Lord of Winterfell so stern and cold to the rest of the North, yet so pliable and sweet before his lady wife.

“It’s nothing.” Jon said. “Lost my footing in the yard.”

“Nothing?” she repeated. The tops of his shoulders had been rubbed raw by the cobblestones of the training yard, bleeding despite the wrapped bandage Sam had laid across his skin. “It doesn’t look like _nothing_.”

“It doesn’t hurt.” Jon promised, though he gritted his teeth as she carefully picked a small pebble from the raw wound.

It was another few moments before Sam arrived, arms piled high with the books and unopened letters he was most likely going to tuck into before supper. He stopped short as he entered the room, his eyes sliding from Sansa to Jon and back to Sansa. The redness that crept into his face proved that he remembered the night before when he had carried Sansa to her left her to consummate her vows.

“Lost my footing in the training yard.” Said Jon, sensing the man’s discomfort.

As Sam set about to handling the wound Sansa wandered absently around the room in search of new books. Lord Tyrion had written to tell her that he had sent a caravan of new volumes for her but they had yet to arrive from the Capital and over the previous days she had finished the few books that had been left after the Bolton siege.

Rounding the corner of the tall bookshelf Sansa turned to Jon, still perched on the top of Sam’s desk, offering his arm so Sam could spread a greenish poultice of crushed herbs across the wound. “Have you asked Tormund to keep watch on me?” she asked, her voice sing-song.

Sam hesitated before turning back to the poultice, pretending he had not heard a word. “No.” said Jon. The look Sansa threw at him was scathing and proved just how little she believed him. “Well…yes. He’s just…keeping an eye on things.”

Jon waited for her reprimand but it did not come. Instead she crossed the room and pressed a fine kiss to his cheek, feeling his staunch shoulders relax beneath her touch.

“Thank you.” She whispered, pressing her brow against his temple.

They continued their conversations, Sansa asking a few questions here and there. How to care for the wound, how often to change the dressings, how many days Jon should refrain from training in the yard. She had expected Jon would find little patience with her incessant questions but instead he was silent, his eyes upon her, measured, even. Kind.

If he were true to his thoughts Jon would admit that he had never expected Sansa to act as a wife would. It was their agreement to bear a child and nothing more. Yet here she stood, her attention rapt as she listened to Sam, nodding animatedly as he gave his instructions, leaving her arms full with rolls of fresh bandages and a small jar of mashed herbs she was to apply later that night.

Their supped on honeyed chicken and buttered vegetables at the long table in the dining hall, seated on opposite ends of the table, so far apart that it was difficult to carry a conversation. But their silence was not uncomfortable, as Sansa might have thought, but comfortable. They are slowly and easily, Sansa watching Jon’s throat bob as he swallowed, watching carefully to assure he did not drink enough wine to interfere with the small draught of milk of the poppy Sam had given him.

“He is quite fond of you.” Said Jon as Ghost padded towards Sansa, his large body unable to fit beneath the table and nearly pulling down the tablecloth with him as he walked.

Sansa reached down to feed Ghost one of the legs of chicken, smiling softly as she felt his whiskers tickle her skin as he lifted the bone from her palm and licked the honey from her fingers. “The feeling is quite mutual.” She teased, petting the direwolf happily, feeling Ghost’s bristly hair run between her fingers.

His body stretched across her feet and against her legs, warming her skin as much as the fire that burned in the grate. Half of her wondered if he might still be able to smell Lady upon her, though she knew that was foolish. It had been years since the direwolf had been taken from her, the first of the Lannister’s many crimes, though she was glad that at least the direwolf had been given an easy death.

When they finished the dessert of sweet pears and cream Sansa gave a small curtsy and retired to her chamber, leaving Jon to sleepily attend to the business his manservant had brought before him.

By the time that Jon joined her in the chamber the servants had finished filling the bathing tub with steaming water and Sansa had poured a few drops of sweet smelling oils into the water. Jon looked surprised to find that the bath had already been filled and thanked her dazedly, his eyes sweeping her face as though testing to see if she bore ulterior motives.

Jon used his foot to kick the door closed behind him but when Ghost padded across the tile and slinked into the bathing chamber the door was pushed open, a sliver of golden light pooling across the shining floor. He used the lip of the tub as leverage as he pulled off his boots one at a time before reaching for his swordbelt and letting it fall to the floor with a metallic clang. Sansa felt her cheeks burn, the eyes she begged to look away not following her demands. She could only watch as Jon languidly reached for his tunic and lifted it gingerly over his head, flinching at the pain in his shoulder. The bandages he unwrapped came away bloody and green from the poultice as he undid the dressing, peeling away the legs of his breeches until he was clad in nothing but the dirt that peppered his skin.

Sansa turned back to her book though neither eyes nor brain comprehended anything but the memory of Jon’s body atop hers the previous night. He had been firm in all the proper places, but his hands and his lips had been soft as the petals of a winter rose against her face as he caressed her gently.

She could feel the blush at her cheeks returning, so hot that it was though her skin had burst suddenly into flame, and she heard Jon let out a long, contented sigh as his body sunk into the scalding water. Just the thought of Jon knowing she was watching him made her stomach twist with nervousness, the eyes that scrolled across the yellowing page only catching every fifth word.

The candles that lined the walls of the bathing chamber flickered upon Jon’s wet skin to give it the illusion of glowing gold, his hands lowering to rinse free the sweat that had built up as he trained with the Northern boys, reaching places she wished her fingers could touch.

Ghost padded towards her, pushing through the bathing chamber and only widening the space between half-closed door and wall. The direwolf waited impatiently for her to drop her hand so he could lap at it and as she obliged him the wolf panted happily.

Jon let out a groan of pain and Sansa looked up, catching sight of his arm bent at an awkward angle as he attempted to wash his injured shoulders. She crossed the room, blushing scarlet, and looked carefully away from Jon as she stood beside the tub. “Let me.” she offered, hesitantly taking the sponge from his hand. Jon leaned forward; flinching despite the lightness of her touch as she brushed the wound, dabbing away the bits of dried blood that had crusted around the wound.

This time her eyes did not wander, despite the lack of cover of Jon’s body. Her face burned, the hand she lay upon Jon’s free shoulder to balance herself as she kneeled beside the tub warmed by his skin. She could blame the blush of her face on the hot water but even Sansa knew they both knew the truth. The sponge brushed away the blood and the dirt and left his skin flushed pink and angry.

“Are you…” asked Sansa, choosing her words carefully. “Do you still hurt from the battle?”

Jon’s frown deepened. She could see the scar on his back from where he had been struck by an enemy blade, the skin soft and shining silver and after her fingers ran across it he flinched, not in pain but in surprise.

“Yes.” He admitted. “It was all worth it.” He paused, turning to look up at her. Jon felt suddenly very aware of the fact that he was naked beneath the shadow of the water. “I did it for you...” he licked his lips, his eyes watering from the steam. “I was just afraid you might think I did it for the Queen or for myself…but it was all for you.”

The sponge in her hand slowed and stopped, leaving streaks of sweet-smelling soap running down his back. His eyes were dark and hooded, watering gently from the steam of the bath. She lowered her head to press a kiss to his cheek, feeling the course stubble beneath her lips rough as dessert sand. The angle of his head left the corner of his mouth on hers, warm and sweet and tasting of wine.

When Sansa pulled back her eyes swept over his face, her fingers rising to brush a dark curl from his brow. The pads of her fingers hesitated as they ran down his face, pausing as they dragged across his bottom lip. His words echoed in her head like a song she could not forget, and when her lips lowered again they found his mouth easily.

His kiss was nothing like the previous night. There was neither hesitation nor discomfort in his touch. His mouth was sure, firm against hers as he leaned forward, the muscles in his back pulling taut as they worked. Water lapped against the lip of the tub, seeping into her gown as his arms enveloped her, her chest tight with warmth as he embraced her.

Her lips were warm and sweet and parted, the red lips that pressed against his bearing the same traces of wine he was sure his possessed. The lip of the ivory tub was cold against her belly, both the water that ran down her front and the voracity of his kiss making heat pool in her belly.

Jon called her name in a hoarse whisper and the tightness in her chest only grew. “I didn’t know…” He looked down at her, feeling the heat that filled his cheeks reaching somewhere far lower. His chest rose and fell in a pant, as breathless as he had been when the stable master’s daughter had kissed him for the first time. “I didn’t know you wanted to.”

Her lips had never looked so seductive, glistening and slightly swollen from the pressure of his lips against them. “I wanted to.” Sansa whispered, the thinly masked lust in her voice making the heat in his belly rush down to his cock.

“I should have known.” he muttered, water splashing against the side of the tub as he turned towards her. His hand cupped her cheek, her lips brushing his palm in a gentle kiss as he brushed aside a strand of crimson hair that fell loose from its pins.

“Hush.” said Sansa, halting him with a single word.

Jon released the curl he had taken hostage, his callused fingers raising to brush across her cheek. He could see her eyes flutter closed at the guileless tenderness of the motion and would that he could, Jon would make those who had caused her to forget the feeling of a kind touch suffer.

Sansa reached for his hand, feeling the roughness of calluses against her soft fingers as she pulled him to his feet and she did not let the boldness in her eyes die away as they swept down the length of his body, every dune and curve of muscle now glistening with water and warm candlelight.

Her wool gown was heavy with the water that had been shed from his body, nimble fingers pulling at the laces of her bodice as she crossed the room until silks and linens spilled across the marble and she was clad in nothing but her small clothes and a thin, dry shift.

Jon sat upon the edge of the bed, watching her supine movements as though enjoying a great performance. She crossed to him in a matter of seconds and though she stood a head smaller than him at this angle, the look on her face could have brought him to his knees.

Jon hands slid down her arms until they curved to her back, a gentle push setting her forward so that she could slide easily into his lap, a long, pale leg hitching over his so she could comfortably sit. She could feel the firmness of his cock against her belly, the friction brought forth with her movements making him grit his teeth.

The light linen of her shift shone sheer in the flickering firelight, the thumbs that brushed across the silk of her breast able to feel the soft peak of her nipple beneath.

“Look at me, Jon.” Sansa whispered, her arms lying across his neck like a wreath until her chest was flush against his.

It was an order, and yet her voice was tender and fluid, beckoning him forward as surely as though she had just crooked a finger at him. He followed her command, a curious finger taking it upon itself to curl around a strand of crimson hair. He thought of its journey, the auburn curl pulled from its opal pins by a gust of icy wind that had pushed through the open window of the chamber, its ends brushing the curve of her bare shoulder, so close to where he had dreamed his lips would be.

He imagined her now, nimble fingers pulling through the laces of her shift until she was free of the cruel garment, the tight smallclothes that curled against her falling free from her body. He considered this, his finger traveling up to run through her hair, thinking that for the very first time he was jealous of a piece of cloth.

“I should have known.” Jon whispered.

Her lips pressed to the column of his neck, a thrill running through him at the coldness of her lips. She turned her head to lay a kiss against his chest, her eyes blue fire as they watched him. “It matters not.” She whispered, her tongue dragging teasingly across the length of his collarbone. He could feel heat pool in his belly and simmer far lower.

In a breath her slip was over her head and tossed onto the cold marble, Jon’s callused fingers fluttering at the laces of her small clothes as he undid their tight laces, Sansa blushing as though Jon had not stood before her naked as on his nameday just moments before. His fingers ghosted over her spine, making her shiver beneath his touch until she was naked as on her nameday. Naked as he.

The soft pink of her puckered nipples were rendered the same colour as her cheeks as she looked upon him, the blush that coloured her face making her look all the more sultry. Sansa was light in his arms as he lifted her, turning their bodies carefully until she lay upon her back, Jon allowing himself a kiss as reward for his prior restraint.

Sansa’s boldness was fading, the mask she had adopted slipping upon the realization that she was not as knowledgeable in the ways of lying with a man as she was at seducing one. The years she had spent beside Cersei Lannister had taught her charm and grace but nothing of what it truly meant to be husband and wife.

Her mouth was hungry and wild, reaching for every inch of his lips she could reach, the mark her tongue made across his bottom lip burning as though she had left a train of fire behind. His fingers grazed her skin, skating down the curve of her back until he could pull her as close as he was able, tight enough to him that his mouth began to ache with the pressure of her lips.

Jon brushed aside a strand of loose hair and pressed a kiss to her brow. He had felt her give way from urgency to hesitancy and knew what it must mean, shifting her body in his arms until her eyes were on level with his.

He remembered the awkwardness of their prior bedding, the uncomfortable stiffness of their bodies, the way she had clutched her nightgown around her body as though not willing to feel his touch. She had pressed her eyes closed, as though wishing she were anywhere but there. Sansa had only been afraid, Jon realized now. She had been a maiden girl who knew nothing of bedding, nothing of the maidenhood that would leave a soft streak of blood among the bed sheets and a light soreness between her thighs.

A pale fingers rose to thread through his curls, her lips playful as they brushed his. “I trust you.” Sansa murmured, her voice so faint it seemed half a secret even to her.

It was torment. Pure, agonizing, _delicious_ torment not to lay her down and fuck her until they were sore and boneless and screaming. Jon lifted his hips slightly, parting her legs so he was able to more clearly see the thatch of untamed curls at the base of her thighs. Sansa’s cheeks darkened, though as she lifted her eyes to his there was not a trace of timidity hidden within them, the way she pressed her hips to his rendering him without speech.

Her arms twined around his neck, her belly pressed so firmly against his that he could feel every trembling breath she took. Sansa turned to leave a series of warm, wet kisses across his face, the gasp she emitted catching between her teeth as he pressed into her.

Jon draped her leg across his hip, her heel finding purchase against his back, the careful balance that was their position making her face contort in enough pleasure to drive Jon mad with just the sight of her.

The difference between their wedding and their bedding to now left her speechless. She had never known Jon’s touch could be so gentle and yet so sure, that the words he whispered into the shell of her ear could make her tremble with excitement, that the kisses he pressed to her lips could make her burn warm as though she was doused in flame. Would that she could return in time to warn her younger self that the knight she had dreamt of so long ago would bear the face of a Targaryen prince.

Sansa hummed his name gently, Jon’s stomach tightening at the breathiness of her voice. Her hips rolled, urged forward by the pressure of his hand as it slid down the curve of her lower back, guiding her gently. They moved together in a way she had never known but surely should have anticipated. Despite their previous separation Jon always seemed to foresee her needs. He had sent Ghost to her doorstep when he had first heard her cry out, he had offered his cloak before the first shiver even gripped her body. Jon _was_ her husband, she thought. But she had never truly realized it until now.

His breath fanned across her neck, her palms pressed flat against his back, feeling the shift and coil of muscle beneath her fingers. They shifted, twisted easily, turned on backs and sides, pressing mouths and arms and limbs until they were close enough to share the beads of sweat that glistened down their naked bodies. Jon could feel every breath that ran through her body, every curl of her toes against his shin, every soft moan that lilted from her parted lips as sweet and soft as music.

Jon could almost feel selfish. He could think of Dany, his wife and his Queen, sitting in the severe iron chair that she so vastly hated, commanding a city half destroyed by the cache of wildfire the Mad Lioness had released. While he was in the arms of the woman he had fallen quickly and easily into love with, her legs around his waist, her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling his lips against hers. But with every kiss she laid upon his mouth and every graze of her fingers against his cheeks Jon began to care less and less until he thought that if someone were to ask for the Queen’s name he might not remember it.

He could feel the pressure within him building, his stomach tight as the string of a drawn bow. His muscles were trembling, the weight of his body suddenly doubling. Sansa writhed beneath him, her teeth nipping gently at the lobe of his ear, whispering things into his ear that made him shiver with the temptation of carrying them out.

“Gods.” He moaned, and she felt it too, the knowledge that was the hours they had spent together, not touching like this, not kissing like this, agonizing torment.

She let out a sharp gasp and Jon knew that her own release was close, the tight clench of her body beneath his telling. He shifted, her body curving against his easily, guided by the hand that cupped her thigh and lifted it to drape across his hip. His mouth was hot on her skin, his tongue bold as it dragged down the length of her neck, planting kisses and touches and soft nibbles so gentle that they felt light as the brush of a feather.

If Jon had not been near his release the sound of Sansa’s sweet moans would have brought him quickly to it. Her hands closed to fists, her nails scraping across the plains his shoulders. He was loathe to last longer than a few seconds, the bucking of Sansa’s hips wild and uncontrolled as she writhed against him, a bird finally uncaged, free to take part in the pleasure she so greatly deserved.

“Gods, Jon-“ Sansa whispered, teeth biting into her bottom lip to keep from crying out as the knot of tightness in her belly drew together for a split second before spilling free. Her eyes pressed closed and her head thrown back, resting easily against the soft furs that had been laid over the bed.

Her warmth and softness and complete passion drew him over the edge with a simple thrust, his hips slamming against hers hard enough for the sound of their collective moans to fill the room.

Warmth lapped at her skin and Sansa’s face burned as though it had just been thrust into the fire, her lips pressing a series of kisses to the concave of Jon’s offered chest, her fingers running across the tapering of scars that rested there. Rolling onto his back Jon twitched as her fingers crossed the ridge of bone-white scar, both the feeling of her touch and the memory of the wound making his blood run cold.

Her eyes were heavy and prickling with fatigue, falling lightly closed as Jon bent forward to press another kiss upon her lips, his forehead pressing lazily against hers.

A few minutes passed in hazy silence, her fingers reaching to twine through his, their hands falling to curl against her chest. “What are you thinking of?” he whispered.

The fingers of her free hand curled through the dark curls smattered against is chest, feeling the contraction of muscle against her palm with each breath. Her smile faltered and as she spoke her voice was tired enough to flatten the lie she attempted to utter. “Nothing in particular.”

Jon gave her a pointed look, feeling her lips flitter against his neck in the very same spot that had driven him mad mere moments before. Her fingers traced lazily against his naked chest, the mirth in her eyes making him lift his head to press his forehead against hers.

“Do not try to distract me.” he jested. “Spill your secrets at once, wife.”

The playful smile that ghosted across her lips was quickly replaced with a hesitant grin that meant honesty would follow. “I wondered…if you might name your child after your father.”

“ _Our_ child-” Jon corrected, his eyes turning to her. “Shall be named by both mother and father.”

Sansa’s smile returned. “And what shall we name him then?”

“Him?” Jon repeated. His eyes flickered unconsciously to her belly, wondering if it was possible to find a child already blooming within.

She offered a weak shrug. “He will be a prince.”

Jon snorted. “He will be whatever he wishes to be.” He said. “And he shall be named after our father. A bright, healthy boy named Eddard.”

Sansa’s fingers froze upon his, her lips closing to bite back the sob that threatened to spill forth. “E-eddard.” She repeated, her eyes wet and blinking. “A bright, healthy boy named Eddard.”

“And he shall have his mother and father at his side for as many years as we are able.” Jon continued, feeling Sansa’s body curl against his in the bed. He leaned down to kiss her brow, brushing away a strand of crimson hair. “And if our child be born a girl, then she shall be doted upon by her father every day and she shall have the strength and beauty of her mother.”

The words made the warmth of pleasure bloom through her chest like a spring flower grasping for the feel of sunlight. “Do you think it possible to bear a child already?”

Her hands had fallen to rest upon the flat of her belly as though hoping to feel a movement that might answer her question. Jon considered her words for a moment before answering, the hint of a smile that etched across his face making her grin. “I know not, my love. But I am quite sure we will have a long time to practice…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus concludes the three day event you have all been waiting for! (Hopefully) I hope that you liked it as much as I liked writing it and there _may_ be a bit of wiggle room for an epilogue or a sequel... ;)


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